


Ephemera

by astudyinrose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF John, Case Fic, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining John, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2278773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a first year law student at the University College London, and one day he (literally) runs into a strange, tall chemistry student.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Ephemera _, noun: things that are important or useful only for a short time; items that are not meant to have lasting value__

 

John trudged up the steps to the law library, hunching his shoulders against the drizzling rain. He’d been able to catch the coffee cart right before they had packed up for the night, ordering the strongest drink they would give him. It had been an extravagant purchase—more than he could really afford to spend—but it was going to be a long night and he needed the caffeine. He thought tiredly for the umpteenth time that he really needed to get a flatmate. Rent was slowly eating up his savings, and soon there wouldn’t be any left. 

John was reaching into his bookbag for his mobile when someone tall bumped into him, spilling the quadruple espresso all over his jumper. 

“Shit!” John cursed, dropping his phone. He grabbed the now-scalding material and quickly pulled it away from his chest. “Oi, watch where you’re going!” 

The man didn’t even look up, still typing furiously on his phone as he held up a finger on his free hand. 

John gaped at him. He was dripping wet with hot coffee all over his jumper, and this posh-looking bloke was telling him to wait while he finished a _text_? 

“Alright,” the man said, sending whatever it was he’d been typing. He glanced up, and their eyes met briefly before sharp greyish-green irises flicked over John’s whole body as his lips quirked upward on one side into a smug-looking half-grin. 

He bent down to pick up John's phone, which was dangerously close to the puddle of coffee, holding it out as if it were an extreme inconvenience. “I accept your apology,” he said imperiously. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” John blurted out, grabbing his phone. “ _You_ bumped into _me_! That was four pounds’ worth of coffee!”

“I _believe_ we bumped into each other,” the man said, pulling the collar of his long wool coat up against the winter wind. 

John opened his mouth to say something else, but it wasn’t worth it. Instead, he clenched his fists, turning around and starting back down the steps.  

“Where are you going?” the rude bloke called after him. 

“I’m going back to my flat for a new jumper, thanks very much,” John growled without turning around.  

The man caught up with him easily, probably due to his ridiculously long legs. “Ah yes, of course, first year law student, trying to get through briefing the cases for your Criminal Law class. You are on a full scholarship, but you need to keep your grades up to a certain level in order to keep it.” 

John stopped in his tracks, his anger boiling over. “How the _hell_ do you—” 

The man pressed on, those strangely intense eyes scrutinizing John intently. “However, you’ve always had a secret desire to be a doctor, and you even passed all the required A levels to do so. Your parents had wanted your older brother to be a barrister, but then he became an alcoholic and dropped out of uni. You took up the burden of your family’s expectations to relieve your brother of it.”

John opened and closed his mouth, his hands balling at his sides. “Who the hell are you? Are you some kind of… stalker?”

The stranger held out a gloved hand. “Sherlock Holmes. I study chemistry, though possibly not for long.” 

John stared at the hand for a moment, then unclenched his fist and shook it. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was shaking the hand of someone who was quite possibly unhinged.

“John. John Watson.” And _now_ he’d just told him his bloody name.

“Pleasure,” Sherlock said. “Now, since you live a twenty-minute walk from here, can I interest you in simply coming to my flat for a coffee and a clean jumper instead? My flat is just across the street."

John shook his head, stepping back slightly. “I’d better—” 

“I insist.” The greenish-grey eyes were boring into him again, and John felt momentarily like the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

His flat was rather far, and it would save him time, if nothing else. 

John sighed, resigned. “I…er…okay. I guess.”  

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Sherlock jerked his head in what John assumed was the direction of his flat and started to stride away, his long coat billowing behind him dramatically. 

John hesitated, wondering if he should run in the other direction, but somehow he found himself swinging his bookbag over his shoulder and jogging to catch up. 

Once he came even with Sherlock, he bowed to his curiosity and asked, “How did you know all that about me?”   

Sherlock didn’t look at him, but he pursed his lips slightly. “I didn’t know, I saw.”

“Saw?"

“I deduced it." 

“Okay…” John muttered. That hadn’t exactly answered his question.

Sherlock shrugged. “Your shoes. They are several years old, but have been cleaned well. Your phone is also a hand-me-down, inscribed with ‘Harry Watson,’ so obviously a relative. Ergo, you take care of your possessions, and you don’t have a lot of expendable income. You were also distressed about the amount of money you were spending on the coffee, but you decided that the necessity of studying all night was more important in this case—even though we are about to go on holiday and none of the other law students are currently in the library. Therefore, you needed to do well, even more so than other law students. Scholarship. Easy.”

“Okay, but—”

“And then there’s your brother. You don’t have a passion for law, obviously.” John looked daggers at him, but the man pressed on as if oblivious. “It’s the middle of your first year and you are already suffering, but not just from studying. You clearly want to be doing something else. Your bookbag has all the telltale signs of someone who studied for medical A levels—hydrochloric acid stain on the strap, most likely from advanced chemistry coursework. You also have a patch from Emergency Medical Services at St. Bart’s on the side, the kind they give to volunteers. The only reason why you would choose law over medicine, as they are both noble and profitable professions, is most likely due to familial pressure. Put two and two together with your obstreperous sibling’s drinking, and there you have it.”

John shook his head. “Okay, let's say you got all of that right...how could you _possibly_ know about the drinking?”

Sherlock’s lips quirked upward. “Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection on your phone: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone, never see a drunk’s without them.”  

“That was amazing,” John blurted out, in awe despite himself. 

Sherlock glanced at him, a bit of flush coloring his cheeks. “You think so?”

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.” 

“That’s not what people normally say.” 

“What do people normally say?”

“ _Piss off_.”

John burst into laughter, and he saw Sherlock’s mouth slide upward into what could almost be a grin, but it looked awkward, as if he were unused to the motion. They walked up to a Victorian flat which looked much too expensive for a student to afford. Sherlock fished in his pockets for his keys. “So was I right?” 

“What?” John glanced at him, startled. 

“Did I get it all right?” Sherlock asked, over-emphasizing the “t” at the end of the last word as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. 

“Oh,” John said, hesitating slightly before he followed. “I am studying law on scholarship. Dad did want Harry to be a barrister. Dropped out, though. The drinking didn’t help.” 

“Top marks.” Sherlock led him up the stairs to the first floor.

“Except for the fact that Harry is short for Harriet.” 

Sherlock, who had been putting his coat on its hanger, froze. “ _Sister._ ” He shook his head, looking displeased with himself, as he removed his dark blue scarf. “It’s always something.”

John put his own coat on another hook and walked into the flat. It was homey, if messy, with two armchairs in front of an old-fashioned fireplace. There was a skull on the mantelpiece, next to a stack of letters had been skewered to the wood with a knife. Various medical and chemical tomes, as well as sheets of notes, were scattered everywhere. John wandered into the kitchen, where two different microscopes had been set up, and what appeared to be a couple of ongoing experiments. 

“What do you think?” Sherlock walked directly over to the sink and filled the kettle, setting it on the stove. Now that he had removed his coat, John could see that he was dressed in a white button-down and black slacks, which revealed his lean body underneath. John watched him move about the kitchen, his eyes lingering on the dark mess of curls, which contrasted with his pale skin. Put together with his unusual eyes, in a word, Sherlock was…well, _beautiful._

John bit his lip and averted his eyes, hoping that Sherlock hadn’t noticed him staring. 

“It’s…er…nice.” He wasn’t exactly sure why his opinion was of consequence. “Much nicer than my flat.” 

“Good.” Looking pleased, Sherlock left the kettle to boil and strode down the hall towards a bedroom. “I’ll get you a jumper.” 

“You know, I’m not entirely sure your clothes will fit me.” John peered into a beaker of some noxious-looking substance on the countertop.  

“Whoever gave you the impression that it would be mine?” Sherlock said, coming back into the room.

Feeling slightly confused, John took the jumper he offered, which was a soft, dark blue. “Is this cashmere? I can’t accept this.” 

Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Take it. Its previous owner wants nothing to do with it—or me—as of last week. It’s yours.”

John frowned. “What, was it your old flatmate’s or something?"  

Sherlock’s mouth twisted slightly as he leaned against the kitchen table, which seemed to serve as more of a labtop and desk than an eating space. “Something of that nature. Victor would probably prefer some other tiresome delineation, however.”

John looked at the jumper, then up at Sherlock. A man had left clothes at Sherlock’s flat, but he wasn’t really his roommate.

“Oh. _Oh._ I... okay. Got it. I’ll just…where’s the loo?” John stuttered, feeling himself go red.

Sherlock’s eyes were still boring into him, but he simply tilted his head toward the hall. John felt himself flushing deeply as he walked to the loo, shutting the door quickly and leaning over the sink. He turned on the faucet and splashed some water on his face. 

He’d never told anyone, not even Harry, that he was bisexual. In his teens he’d had a few fumbling encounters with his mate Pete from his rugby team, but by tacit agreement, both of them had kept it a secret. John hadn’t been sure whether it was just a phase (it wasn’t) and because Pete had been dating the most beautiful girl in the school (officially, anyway), John had never really thought about trying to test the waters thoroughly in that area, mostly because he knew exactly how his family would react. When Harry came out as gay around the time she had dropped out of uni, he’d become the golden child: the one who would be a barrister, then get married and provide grandchildren. There had always been plenty of girls, too, which had been…easier. 

Yet here he was, in the flat of one of the most gorgeous men he’d ever _seen_ , let alone spoken to. And Sherlock had just made it clear that he dated men, and that he was single.

John shook his head. Sherlock would definitely not be interested in someone like him. He was obviously rich and seemed abnormally intelligent, and he probably only dated blokes who could afford cashmere jumpers and said things like “obstreperous” without any irony. And there was no way he could handle being flatmates with Sherlock; it would be extremely transparent that John was attracted to him and that would just be embarrassing. 

John pulled his soiled jumper off, and tried to rinse the stain out as best he could. After he had pulled on the new jumper, he glanced at himself in the mirror. It was almost the same shade of blue as his eyes, and it was more luxurious than anything he had ever owned. He felt uncomfortable in it.

Steeling himself once more, John opened the door and walked back down the hall. Sherlock was in the kitchen, pouring the boiling water into a French press. 

“I’m making it strong,” Sherlock said over his shoulder. 

“Thanks.” John draped his wet jumper over one of the kitchen chairs.

“So?” Sherlock set down the coffee to steep and turned around, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter. His eyes widened fractionally, flicking over John again.

“So…?” John repeated weakly, trying not to blanch under the intensity of the other man’s gaze.

Sherlock pushed off the ledge, walking closer to John. 

“ _So_ , do you want to move in?” Sherlock asked.

“Wait, what?” John shook his head to clear it as he stepped backward. It was as if they’d been having a whole conversation that John wasn’t privy to.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “You want a flatmate, don’t you?” 

“Well…yeah."

“You like this flat.”

“Yes, but I could never afford this place.” 

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “I get a special deal from the landlady. Next objection?” 

“We don’t even know each other. I just met you ten minutes ago, and now you want me to move in with you?” 

Sherlock walked closer until he was invading John’s personal space. Those strange eyes were almost luminescent now, and he looked at John in a way that made him flush again.

“I already know more about you than most of your acquaintances, as I believe I have already proven.” The side of Sherlock’s mouth quirked upward slightly. “Is there some other problem?”

John could almost feel the heat of Sherlock’s breath against his cheek. “No. I mean, yes,” he said hoarsely. His throat felt dry.

“Which is it?” Sherlock said, his voice reaching a lower register. John realized was having trouble breathing. 

With a great effort, John broke the gaze and stepped backward, his heart hammering in his chest. He picked up his bookbag from the floor. “I’d better get going,” he said, attempting to keep his tone light.  

“What about the coffee?” Sherlock’s voice was no longer as deep nor as nonchalant as it had been moments before. 

“Leave it, it’s fine.” Carefully avoiding meeting those mesmerizing eyes, John grabbed his wet jumper and turned towards the door. 

“Just—” 

“Thanks for the jumper, I’ll return it soon,” John called over his shoulder, trotting down the stairs and out the door before he could be waylaid any further.

 

 

* * *

A few days went by. John had the cashmere jumper cleaned and left it next to his door, and every time he walked by, he paused momentarily but didn’t take it with him.

After a full week, John was unable to justify a further delay. With more dread than he felt when he went to Contracts class, John took the jumper and walked to Sherlock’s flat one night after supper. The lights on the first floor were on, but it was unclear whether anyone was home. He placed the package on the doorstep, lingering there longer than was truly necessary, oscillating as to whether he should knock. Before he could make a decision, however, he heard some violin music filtering down from the top floor. He glanced up at the window, where he could just make out the outline of a tall, lithe figure silhouetted behind the curtains.

The notes twirled downward from the swirling curtains, swelling and fading in turns. It was a plaintive piece, achingly beautiful, and it twisted deep in John’s gut. He suddenly felt lonelier than he’d ever felt in his life, just listening from afar. 

John had never been a particularly musical person-- though he’d had to learn clarinet in grade school-- yet he found himself entranced by the melody. It was as if the song had become a language in the air, and he was able to understand somehow that the musician was just as alone as he. 

Everything about the night around him seemed to fade away into the background. He felt frozen on the step, the darkness thickening around him, and the only thing he could hear was the single violin. 

After a long while the song ended, and John shook his head slightly to clear it. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned and strode away before he could be spotted.

 

 

* * *

John threw himself head first into his studies, trying not to think about Sherlock (an effort which became increasingly futile). His heart skipped a beat whenever he saw the back of a curly head walking down the street, or when he saw someone with a long coat walking around the corner, but it was never him. He thought about “casually” bumping into Sherlock outside of the library or near his flat again, but quickly dismissed all of these thoughts as pathetic. 

In the end, it was three more weeks before he saw Sherlock Holmes again, and it was purely by accident.

On a dreary, grey Thursday evening, John was walking down a somewhat-deserted street toward his flat. He hadn’t eaten anything in a day and a half, and he was contemplating whether he could afford a sandwich, when he heard a sound coming from the passage to his right. It was barely discernible over the noise of traffic, but it sounded very much like the distinct crunching noise a fist made against facial bones.

John stopped abruptly, squinting his eyes as he looked down the dark alley. He heard two distinct voices, slightly dampened by the high walls around them.

The voices stopped and he heard the crunching noise again, accompanied by the muffled sound of someone trying not to cry out in pain.

John’s hand tightened on the strap of his bookbag as he glanced down the street. He should probably call for help. That would be the most sensible thing to do.  

Then he heard the noise again, and without thinking, he started jogging down the alley, moving as quietly as possible. A third, airier yet more sarcastic voice chimed in. 

He heard another blow, much harder this time, and the sound of someone falling to the ground. Without hesitation, John strode around the corner, his fists clenched.

The scene that greeted him was worse than he had feared. A rather burly man was standing over the limp form of Sherlock Holmes, whose hair was flung over his face. John could see that he’d been hit enough times to draw blood. The other man, who was slighter, shorter, and darker, yet somehow seemed like the more powerful of the two, was leaning against the wall and watching them with clinical disinterest.

John gritted his teeth. “Is there a problem here, lads?” 

“Sodding fag was poking his head in other people’s business,” the bigger man said. “Needed to be taught a lesson.”

John narrowed his eyes at the slur, his hands clenching into fists. “And has the lesson been delivered to your satisfaction?”  

The tall man walked over to loom over John in a manner that was probably supposed to be intimidating. 

“What’s it to you?” 

John didn’t back down or step back, instead poking his finger into the man’s chest. “If you don’t leave, _right now_ , I promise you, you _will_ regret it.” John said it slowly, quietly, but with a full force of steel behind his tone. 

The man looked at him curiously, much like an interesting insect to be squashed. The other man—the one who had been leaning against the wall—spoke up for the first time. “Who are you?” 

John felt his jaw clench slightly. “Someone you don't want to mess with.”

The bigger man looked like he wanted to bash John's skull in, but the shorter one watched John for a moment before he said in a lazy drawl, “Seb, let’s go. I think we’ve made our point.” 

The burly man continued to stare John down, but he stepped back. “Tell the fairy he’d better lay off, or it’ll be worse next time." 

The shorter man watched John a bit longer, then finally pushed off the wall and followed.

Once they were gone, John ran quickly over to Sherlock’s limp form, turning him over onto his back. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?” As Sherlock had deduced, John had volunteered at Bart’s for a few months one summer, and he’d learned basic first aid while he was there. He’d never had to use it before, but there was a first time for everything. 

John put his ear to Sherlock’s chest, and he could hear a strong heartbeat. Sherlock groaned, seeming to come back to consciousness a bit, and John sat up again.

“John?” Sherlock blinked up at him, seeming to have difficulty focusing. He clutched his head with one hand. “What are you doing?”

“Checking you out, you idiot. You might have a concussion.”

Sherlock shook his head, trying to push John away. “I had the situation quite under control." 

“No, you didn’t. I heard them hitting you all the way from the street.” He prodded Sherlock’s chest slightly, and he winced as John touched his right side. “Bruised ribs, if not fractured.” 

He peered into each of Sherlock’s eyes, trying to see if his pupils were normal. “I’m going to ask you some questions to see if you have a head injury. Who is the prime minister?”  

Sherlock looked at him as if that were a ridiculous question.   

John felt a slice of panic. “Okay, how many planets are there in the solar system?”

“Don’t know.” Sherlock struggled to sit up against the wall. Purplish bruises were already coloring the pale skin on his cheeks.  

“Seriously? That’s it, we are going to hospital, right now.”

“Stop being an idiot.” Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Panic was quickly replaced by blistering anger. “Me? _I’m_ the idiot? I wasn’t the one who got myself beaten up and now can’t even remember —”

“I’ve deleted extraneous details such as the ones you were inquiring about because they are inconsequential. It’s not because of a concussion.” Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at him in annoyance. Those sharp and inquisitive eyes were slightly dulled and he was squinting up at him as if the dark light in the alley were too bright.  

“Okay, you’re officially talking nonsense. How many fingers am I holding up?" 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock batted away John’s hand. “My mind is like a hard drive, John. Details such as—I don’t know, who the current King of England is—are of no consequence, so I delete them.” 

John frowned. “You know we don’t have a king, right?”

Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows, and John’s frown deepened. “Guessing that’s a ‘no’ then. Can I still—”

“No,” Sherlock snapped automatically. “ _No_ hospital.”

John gritted his teeth. “Fine. Your flat, then?”

Sherlock considered this for a moment, before he nodded. John pulled him to his feet and flung one of Sherlock’s arms over his shoulder. 

“What was that all about, anyway?” John asked as they walked back towards the sunlight. He glanced around, but there were no taxis in sight. It wasn’t far to Sherlock’s flat, but he was dead weight and they would never make it on foot.

Sherlock sighed emphatically. “A case.”

“Case?” John spotted a taxi, and sighing with relief he flagged it down.  

Sherlock shrugged. “Murder.”

John snapped back to look at him. “ _What_?”

“I'm investigating," he said slowly, as if John were daft. "I want to be a consulting detective, solving crimes. I invented the job.”

“But **—** ”

“I know, I'm still a student. As I said when we met, it might be a fleeting venture.”

Not wanting to press the issue while Sherlock was concussed, John dropped it. He helped Sherlock into the taxi, and he immediately rested his head against the glass of the window. 

John told the cabbie the address, glancing nervously over at Sherlock again. “You still haven’t actually told me how you ended up in a dark alley, being beaten to a pulp by a meathead.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked upward slightly. “I was trying to obtain hair samples from that  _meathead_ , as you so eloquently described him. Unfortunately, I was caught. I might have escaped relatively unscathed if I had not deduced that he and his friend have been shagging each other for the past two months. When I pointed it out, they were less than pleased. ”

John’s jaw dropped. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, but he still had the ghost of a smile on his face, and John couldn’t help but laugh. He covered his mouth, turning towards his own window, but the mirth bubbled over. 

Sherlock shifted slightly next to him. “John?”

“Sorry, it’s just… sodding hypocrites.”

John shook his head, but he could see Sherlock watching him through the slits of his eyes. John opened his mouth to say something else, but as they did, the taxi pulled to a stop in front of Sherlock’s flat and he clicked his jaw shut again. 

John helped Sherlock up the stairs and to his room, shrugging him out of his shoes and coat. He found some alcohol in the kitchen cupboard and cleaned the lacerations on Sherlock’s face as best he could. One of Sherlock’s eyes was already so swollen that he could barely open it, so John created a cold compress using a flannel. 

While John puttered around, Sherlock’s still-functioning eye followed his every move with the same intense gaze as he’d been subjected to that first night. It felt as though he were being x-rayed.

“What?” John blurted out, unable to stop himself.

“I'm not entirely sure,” Sherlock said, still looking at him curiously.  

“Um… okay.” John busied himself by plumping up Sherlock’s pillows a bit, helping him sit up against the headboard.  

Sherlock waved him away. “You can leave now. I’m fine. You’ve done your duty.” 

 _Whatever that means._ “No, you’re bloody _not_ fine,” John said, putting a bit more venom behind his words than was really necessary. Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows again. 

John bit his lip, trying to change the subject. “I’ll make some tea. Milk?”  

“Yes,” Sherlock said, still watching him with that unnerving gaze. Glad to escape, John shuffled out to the kitchen to make them tea. As the water was boiling, he hunted some more in the cabinets until he found an ancient-looking bottle of paracetamol.  

When he got back, Sherlock’s eyes were closed. John quickly put the tea on the side table. 

“Don’t go to sleep,” John said, poking him gently.

“Not,” Sherlock slurred, his eyes closed. 

“I mean it. No sleeping. Here, take these, please.” He handed Sherlock the paracetamol and his tea.

Sherlock just glanced down blearily at his hands and back up at John, as if he weren’t entirely sure what the objects were meant to be used for. 

“Go on,” John said, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he took the pills and sipped the tea before he set it on the side table. He leaned his head back and closed his eye again, sighing.  

“Hey,” John said, pulling a chair up to sit next to the bed. “Deduce something if you have to, but please stay awake.”

Sherlock opened his eye as requested, but John immediately regretted the suggestion. For a moment, Sherlock simply looked at him, his lips pressed together. “You’re a doctor,” he said simply. 

“Um.” John furrowed his brow. “No, I’m not. I’m starting to rethink not taking you to hospital.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again in the ‘ _you’re being an idiot_ ’ way that John was already becoming accustomed to. “You _should_ be a doctor. You have the temperament, the mind of a healer. If you need evidence, look no further than your actions today.” 

“That was just—” John waved his hand in exasperation. “You needed help, so I helped.”

“Exactly.” 

John frowned, not entirely sure how to respond to that.

“Not only that,” Sherlock pressed on, “But you’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people.”

John narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?” 

“You heard someone being beaten and you ran down a dark alley toward the sound instead of calling for help.”

“That’s… that’s just what people _do._ ” John shrugged noncommittally, knowing that his attempt at deflection was feeble at best.

“No. People don’t do that.” Sherlock’s eye slid shut again. John was about to protest but Sherlock mumbled, “Not sleeping. Just resting.”

John rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his tea and settling back in his chair. He was rather tired himself, but he couldn’t let Sherlock slip into a coma or he’d never forgive himself. 

Instead of trying to keep Sherlock awake, as that appeared to be a lost cause, John decided to wake him up every twenty or thirty minutes. It wasn’t exactly easy work, but Sherlock would make some kind of sarcastic remark each time, so at least his brain function was close to normal.

As the hours ticked by, John watched Sherlock doze, his dark eyelashes fluttering over his pale cheeks. His defenses down, Sherlock looked so much more vulnerable, so much younger. John got the feeling that he didn’t sleep much normally, if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication.

John sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand. Despite his attempts to stay away from Sherlock, here he was, back in the man’s flat. Not only that, but he was staying up all night and watching him sleep. 

This was absurd. He’d only met him a grand total of two times, but the truth was, John already knew that it was a lost cause. Sherlock was one of the strangest, most brilliant and most cryptic men he’d ever known… and he was completely drawn in, despite himself. The man was like a drug, and he was hooked.

This was bad. It was really, really bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to stay true to a lot of aspects of English university life (especially how students go through A levels and such, which will be more relevant later), but in terms of the courses John is taking as a first year law student, I'm taking some liberties. Since I'm a 1L in an American university law school, I'm just putting in the kinds of classes I am taking. If there's a huge difference from what first year law students in England learn, please forgive me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been ages since this updated. I'm planning on trying to update every couple of weeks from now on, though. Scout's honor.
> 
> Thanks so much to Katie, who is a beautiful tropical fish, and Leslie, who is a poetic, noble land mermaid.

 

John awoke with a start, realizing immediately that the room was lighter than he remembered. He’d obviously fallen asleep sometime in the night.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He stood quickly, rubbing his eyes as he strode back over to the bed. The compress had slid off Sherlock’s face in his sleep, and his black eye had bloomed spectacularly into deep purple. There were other dark splotches all over his cheekbones.

“Sherlock?” John whispered, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder gently, but not enough to worsen the concussion. Sherlock didn’t budge. 

“Dammit,” John muttered. “ _Sherlock_.”

“Bugger off,” Sherlock muttered without opening his eyes. 

John exhaled, feeling a stab of relief. “Sherlock, you need to wake up." He cupped Sherlock’s face and looked into his eyes to check the pupils. Sherlock looked up at him sleepily, and John froze, realizing that he was hovering only inches from his face—close enough that they could easily kiss.

As if he could read John’s mind, Sherlock wordlessly raised his eyebrows.

John felt himself flush deeply. He released Sherlock’s face and straightened up, clearing his throat. “Good, you’re awake. That’s, um…” he cleared his throat again. “Good." 

“Indeed,” Sherlock said quietly, his eyes still trained on John. 

John shifted on his feet, feeling as if he were being flayed open by his gaze. “I… er… do you want breakfast? Tea?”

Sherlock closed his eyes again. “John, you have an oral argument this morning which you still have to finish preparing for. You should go.” 

John frowned. He’d completely forgotten about the oral argument, and he did need to go over his notes again before class. “But I—” 

“I absolve you of blame if I go into a comatose state due to your lack of attention." 

When John still didn’t leave, Sherlock opened his eyes again. “I’m fine, John. Just go.” He turned over so that his back was to John and lay still.

John bit his lip. He really had no excuse to stay, and Sherlock did seem to be out of the woods.

“Fine, but text me later, alright? I’m putting my number in your phone.” He snatched Sherlock’s mobile off the table and programmed his name and number in. Sherlock didn’t move or otherwise respond, so John picked up his bookbag and strode out with what little dignity he could muster.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock didn’t text him. 

As the hours and then days crawled by, John couldn’t decide which was worse: the fact that he hadn’t heard from Sherlock, or that he’d programmed his own number into Sherlock’s phone and Sherlock had ignored it. The fact was, this time, he’d wanted to stay, and Sherlock had practically thrown him out.

Three days after the alleyway incident, John was trying to make notes in his Criminal Law lecture, but he couldn’t concentrate. A girl a few rows in front of him had dark, curly hair, and when she was facing front, she almost looked like Sherlock.

Giving up on paying attention, John let his thoughts drift. He found himself wondering when Sherlock had learned to play violin. He wondered why Sherlock had broken up with Victor—or why Victor had broken up with him. He wondered why Sherlock had decided to study chemistry, and what his experiments were about.

His thoughts drifted further, into more dangerous territory. He imagined what Sherlock’s lush lips tasted like, or how that pale, delicate skin would feel beneath his own. John longed to twist the dark curly hair between his fingers, and see how Sherlock’s face would look, lips parted, as he…

“Mr. _Watson_.” John’s gaze snapped up to meet the professor’s. She was looking at him above her horn-rimmed glasses, obviously piqued.  

“Sorry?” John said, sitting up straighter in his chair as the entire class tittered amusedly. The professor must have made more than one attempt to get his attention. 

She simply raised her eyebrows. “I asked you to explain the enactment of the Sexual Offences Act of 1967 and discuss its effect on popular opinion regarding homosexual conduct.”

John flushed, realizing that must have been part of the reading that he’d been unable to finish the night before, as he was taking care of a certain posh chemistry student. “I, er… I think it was… good?”

John felt his cheeks heat up even more at the general chuckling in the room.

“Thank you for that eloquent dissertation, Mr. Watson,” the professor said snidely. “Next time you are daydreaming, I hope it’s about the law and not about Ms. Harrison.” She went on to another student, and John shrank back into his chair.

Class finally ended an eternity later, and the girl whose head he’d been staring at smiled at him flirtatiously as he walked out. He managed a curt nod, trying not to flush even more, as he fled the scene.

He trudged down the street in the fading light, hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. Sherlock was obviously not interested in him, and he was pining away like some kind of an idiot. Try as he might, though, it seemed to be impossibly hard to forget about him. 

John was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t even notice at first when a sleek, black car pulled up beside him, moving slowly to keep pace with him. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, John walked a bit more quickly. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dark-tinted rear window roll down halfway.

“Mr. Watson,” a smooth voice said. Something about the voice made the hair on the back of John’s neck stand up. “Please get in.”

“Me mum always told me never to get in the car with strangers.” 

“I will give you a ride to a destination of your choosing.” 

“No thanks.” John continued to walk away, not making eye contact. 

“If you want Sherlock Holmes to live, get in the car.” The voice was more stern this time. 

John stopped in his tracks, looking over at the car, which rolled to a stop. A pair of sharp, almost threatening eyes were trained on him over the half-raised window. 

“Please, do get in,” the man’s voice said silkily. The door opened a crack.

John glanced up and down the street, but there was no one in sight. He didn’t actually believe that Sherlock’s life was in danger, yet he couldn’t bring himself to take the chance. 

He gave in, sliding into the car and closing the door behind him. 

Inside the car was a man in his early thirties, who was wearing a pinstripe three-piece suit. He was twirling an umbrella in his hand and watching John with an expression of curious bemusement. 

“What do you want?” John asked bluntly. 

The man continued to watch him for a long moment without saying anything. John raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” the man said eventually.

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John quipped.

The man looked a bit surprised, but the chuckled after a moment. “What’s your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

John stared him down, trying to decide what to say. “I don’t have one. I barely know him.” 

The man cocked his head to the side. “And yet you saved his life, spent the night at his flat... and when I threatened him you jumped in this vehicle without a second thought. Should we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

John furrowed his brow. _It’s not like that,_ he thought. _No matter how much I wish it were._ “Who _are_ you?”

The man twirled his umbrella a bit more, looking smug. “I’m the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what’s that?”

“An enemy,” the man said without wasting a beat. He looked up at John as if to judge his reaction. 

“An...enemy?” John raised an eyebrow.

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d certainly say his arch enemy. He does have a flair for the dramatic.” 

“Thank god _you’re_ above all that.” 

There was a long pause. When the man spoke again, it was in an even quieter voice than before. “If you were to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes, I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money to…ease your way.” 

John felt his hands clench into fists. “Why?” 

“Because you’re a student with a lot of debt.” 

“How the hell do you know how much debt I’m in?” John snapped. 

The man watched him carefully. “It’s not a difficult deduction to make.”

John tried to keep his anger under control. “And what do you want in exchange?”

The man smiled, looking like the cat that got the cream. “Information. Nothing indiscreet.”

“Why?” 

He looked out the window. “I worry about him. Constantly.”

John suddenly felt very uncomfortable. 

“No,” he said bluntly. 

“You’re very loyal, very quickly.” 

“No, I’m not. I’m just not interested.”

The man watched him for another long moment. “Very well.” He knocked his umbrella on the roof in three swift taps, and the car pulled over to the kerb.

“Think it over, Mr. Watson,” the man said. “I’ll be around to see if you’ve changed your mind.”

“Yeah, right,” John said, jumping out of the car.

As he watched the car pull away, John’s immediate impulse was to call Sherlock and warn him. However, as he took out his phone and looked at the screen, he realized that he hadn’t actually gotten Sherlock’s number. 

Sighing in exasperation, he looked down the street just as the sedan turned around the corner.

He raked his hand through his hair, trying to shake off the strange feeling he’d had about the entire encounter. Why was the man asking people to spy on Sherlock? Was he somehow involved in a case Sherlock had been investigating?

There was nothing he could do, since he didn’t have a way of warning Sherlock. As John was about to turn toward the library, though, his phone pinged. He stopped, glancing downward to see an address and a single line of text from an unknown number: 

_Come at once if convenient. SH_

John stared at the text for a moment, his heart pounding. Before he could respond, another text popped up. 

 _If inconvenient, come all the same. SH_  

John bit his lip, trying to decide what to do. He knew empirically that he should ignore the text, go study for the next several hours, then get some sleep for class the next day, like a good student.

His phone pinged once more.

 _Could be dangerous._  

John hesitated a fraction of a second longer before he turned and strode off in the opposite direction.

 

 

* * *

Ten minutes later, John found himself standing outside a building near campus. He glanced down at his phone, then back up.

“Jesus,” John muttered under his breath. He was standing in front of the UCL aquatic center, which he’d seen on the news several times that week. 

Carl Powers, a third year from the UCL School of Laws, had been found dead in the pool three days earlier. The media had reported it as an accidental drowning, and there’d been no mention of foul play. Of course, everyone at the School of Laws had been talking about it.

John pocketed his phone, squared his shoulders and strode towards the door.

The lock had already been picked, so John walked quickly down the hallway, glancing furtively around him as he went. He opened the door leading to the locker room and peeked in. There were no signs of life. 

“Sherlock?” he called out tentatively.

“Here,” a familiar voice responded. John walked down the long room until he found Sherlock. He was wearing nitrile gloves and peering into a locker, which appeared to have once been completely taped off by the police.

“What are you doing?” John blurted out, stopping short.

“What does it look like?” Sherlock didn’t look up, continuing to poke through the sparse contents of the locker and throwing items on the floor. His face still sported the telltale signs of the beating he had received, but at least the swelling had gone down enough that he could see out of both eyes again. His skin was still a slightly mottled shade of yellow where the bruises had faded on his cheeks. 

“Sherlock, is this a _crime scene_?” John asked weakly, already knowing the answer.

“Of course it is. Well, it was. They never found anything of consequence, because the most important item was already gone when they arrived.”

John crossed his arms. “Okay, putting aside the fact that entering a crime scene unaccompanied is one hundred percent illegal, why are you doing this?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “No one at NSY will take my hypotheses seriously, and their resistance is becoming unbelievably frustrating. So I’m just going to have to solve it on my own.”

“Wait, so the police never actually ask for your help?”

Sherlock was now inspecting the floor of the locker with a magnifying glass. “Not with words, no. With their incompetency, yes.” He swept his finger across the locker floor and sniffed it. Looking intrigued, he pulled a small baggie containing a cotton swab out of his pocket. He swirled the swab on the floor of the locker before replacing it in the bag and sealing it carefully.

“Right.” John leaned against the lockers. “So what am I doing here, exactly?”  

“I should think it’s rather obvious.” Sherlock put the bag in his pocket and went back to inspecting the locker. 

“Not to me.”

“You’re bored,” Sherlock said.

“Bored?” John snorted. “I’m the farthest thing from being bored. I have so much to do I can’t sleep for more than a few hours a night—”

“And yet I said ‘could be dangerous,’ and here you are.”

John frowned. “I was… I don’t know.” _I was worried about you_.

Sherlock stood up abruptly, slipping the magnifying glass into his pocket as he strode away. “Come along, John,” he said, over his shoulder.

John sighed in exasperation, following him at a trot. Sherlock had already swept around the corner and out of the locker room, so John pushed the swinging door inward, following him into the pool. 

The lights overhead were off, and the gradient light from the water was oscillating over the walls in strange dancing waves. There was something about the room that sent a shiver down John’s spine, and he didn’t think it was just the fact that Carl had died there. 

Sherlock looked out over the water with his hands clasped behind him, and neither of them moved or spoke for several long seconds.

“What do you think?” Sherlock asked, abruptly breaking the silence.  

“About what?” John asked, startled. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “About how Carl died,” he said, as if they had been having a full conversation about this and John hadn’t been able to keep up.

“Drowning?” John asked tentatively. 

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip contemplatively, his eyes darting over the water. “Yes, but _why_? He was a champion swimmer, and he trained here with the local team three times a week despite the rigorous course load he was taking. He was getting top marks, and was on track to graduate in the top of the class.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Exactly.”

Before John could ask more, the sound of the heavy outer door opening cut him short. As footsteps echoed down the hall, John could hear two men arguing. Their voices sounded oddly familiar. Before John could react, Sherlock grabbed him and pushed him toward an open broom cupboard, closing it behind them as quietly as possible. The interior was rather small, and because of all the cleaning detritus behind them, John was pressed front-to-front directly up against Sherlock.

The voices got louder as the men approached, and soon they were on the deck of the pool, echoing off the walls. 

“What’s—” John started.

Sherlock clapped his hand over John’s mouth. They were close enough that John could see the outline of Sherlock’s face in the darkness, but not his expression. 

The two voices got louder. 

“...the mop-up job was sloppy, you know better than that,” one of the men drawled. 

“ _Sloppy_? How the fuck was I supposed to get rid of them?” 

“It’s called _being thorough_. Now the coppers are aware they are missing, thanks to our friend.” 

John was now sure that he recognized the two voices: they were the two men that had beaten Sherlock up in the alley.

“And so far as I can tell, they don’t give a rat’s arse that they’re gone. We’re fine, Jim.”

Now that his vision had adjusted to the lack of light, John could see Sherlock’s face. His eyes were dark and dilated in the scant light, and his excitement was crackling in the air. 

 _Shit._ This was really not the time to get a hard-on. 

John closed his eyes, trying to think about something— _anything—_ other than the fact that he was pressed up against Sherlock’s slender body in the dark. 

“That’s not the point. We have to find another method of elimination.”

“Like what?” 

One of the pair scoffed aloud. “Later. Just retrieve the trainers so that we can get out of here. The janitorial staff could be coming through soon. Where are they?” 

“Cupboard.” 

John’s eyes snapped open, and his heart raced as he looked up at Sherlock again. Sherlock shook his head slightly, but John had no idea what that was supposed to mean. 

The footsteps were getting closer, then they stopped abruptly.

“Not that one. The cupboard in the locker room. I made sure to hide them under the water polo equipment since it’s not the season for it.” 

“Fine, just get on with it. I’ve a lecture to attend. Let me know when it’s done.”

The echoing footsteps faded away, and the door opened and closed once more. Then there was only silence. 

John let out a deep sigh, but tried not to move too much in case Sherlock could feel the fledgling erection in his jeans.

After waiting a few more seconds, Sherlock opened the door to the pool, striding out and crossing the deck quickly. He paused at the door to the locker room, listening, before pushing it inward.   

“So what was that all about?” John whispered.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “They are obviously going to destroy the trainers, and they have erased all other traces of the murder. They need another method of _elimination..._ the question is who, and why—”

“Wait, so they’re going to kill more people?” John interrupted.

Sherlock blinked at him. “Obviously.”   

“And you’re going to try and, what, stop them?” John hissed. 

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, as if this too were a ridiculous question. 

John clenched his teeth. “Sherlock, they’re murderers.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Sherlock repeated. He opened the cupboard, which had obviously been sorted through already. “Blast,” he muttered.

John swallowed. “Don’t you think the police should be the ones to take care of this?” 

Sherlock snorted in derision. “I told you, they think Carl died of natural causes and we have no actual proof to the contrary.” 

Standing up quickly, he walked toward the exit to the building and out into the open air, looking around. 

“What are you looking for?” John asked. 

“He has the trainers,” Sherlock muttered, almost as if to himself.

“So?” John was getting tired of constantly feeling one step behind.

“If we have the trainers, we can prove—” Sherlock froze, his eyes focusing on a taxi about a block ahead of them.  “Of course!" 

Without another word, Sherlock started sprinting toward the cab, and John cursed under his breath, running after him.

“Sherlock, we will never be able to catch them,” he panted.

“This way!” Sherlock yelled, veering into an alley to the right. John nearly ran past by accident, stopping short and bumping into an elderly man.

“Sorry, sorry!” John said, turning into the alley.

They ran through it to another street, only to see the cab disappearing around another corner.

Sherlock seemed undeterred. He grabbed a fire escape ladder on the building behind them and pulled it down, scrambling up it nimbly. 

John looked up in slight disbelief for a moment, then shook his head and started climbing up the ladder after him. By the time he’d made it halfway up, Sherlock was already disappearing over the ledge in a swish of his coat. 

Just as John thought he’d forgotten him, Sherlock’s curly head popped out over the ledge. “John, come on!” his head disappeared again, and John climbed the rest of the way as quickly as he could.

Sherlock was already running toward the edge of the roof, and John followed, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

Sherlock stopped at the ledge, which was a good three feet from the next building.

“Well, I guess that’s it then,” John panted, but Sherlock simply backed up, then ran full stop toward the ledge. 

“Sherlock!” John yelled.

Sherlock’s long legs must have served him well, however, for he made it to the other building with room to spare.

“Come on, John!” 

“Are you fucking insane?” John yelled across at him.

“John, come _on_! We’re losing him!” Sherlock shouted. “Just don’t look down!” 

Fighting his impulse to simply cuss at Sherlock some more, John backed up as far as he could and made a running leap onto the other side. His foot landed right on the edge of the ledge, and he started slipping backward. 

Sherlock immediately grabbed his arm, pulling him over onto the rooftop. The momentum of it, however, made him lose his balance, and they both toppled forward. Sherlock landed with a soft grunt, and John was directly on top of him. Their faces were half an inch apart, and Sherlock’s wild eyes were looking directly into John’s. 

Sherlock twisted John off him, standing quickly and pulling John to his feet before taking off again.

They ran down another fire escape, dashing out into the street just as the cab was turning the corner, and Sherlock jumped in front of the taxi, holding out his arms.

“Stop! Please!”

The taxi screeched to a halt. The driver started yelling obscenities at Sherlock, but Sherlock paid him no mind, running around to open the door to the passenger side. 

“What the hell is going on?” the driver barked at John. 

“I’m sorry, just a moment, sorry,” John stuttered, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We’re with the police. Sort of.”

“Fucking crazy buggers,” the driver muttered.

Sherlock pulled the back door open quickly, but the taxi didn’t hold the burly-looking man from the alley. Instead, it was a middle-aged man who looked utterly confused. 

“Blast,” Sherlock said under his breath, his sharp eyes flicking over the man. “Welcome to London, sorry for the bother.”

He shut the door, and the cab driver muttered some obscenities again before driving off.

“He must have gone another way. I was so certain he’d take a cab so as to be harder to follow…” Sherlock muttered to himself, running his hand through his hair and pacing back and forth. 

Sherlock looked distraught and frustrated, and somehow even more beautiful than he’d ever seemed before—pale cheeks flushed, hair windblown from running. Watching him, John felt lightheaded, but more exhilarated than he’d felt in ages. 

He couldn’t help it. He felt the mirth bubbling up in his chest, and before he knew it he was laughing uproariously.

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at him incredulously, but within seconds his lips started curling upward into an answering smile. 

“What?” Sherlock asked. 

“It’s just… welcome to London?” Laughing so hard he couldn’t quite breathe, John stepped backward, leaning against the wall of the building nearest them.

Sherlock shrugged. “He was a tourist from America. Just landed.”

“Whatever,” John said, waving his hand. “That was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing… I’ve ever done,” he panted, shaking his head.

“And you went to law school,” Sherlock said, completely deadpan.

John burst into another fit of giggles, and as he looked up into those eyes that were so complex, and yet so achingly vulnerable, it felt like he’d found something he’d always been searching for, something dangerous and exciting and _new_. 

He was really in for it.

  

* * *

Ten minutes later they were at Sherlock’s flat on Baker Street. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock called out as he closed the front door. “Tea, please.”

He led John toward the stairs to the first floor, not pausing to wait for a response. 

“Not your housekeeper,” an older woman’s voice called out.

“And biscuits if you have them,” Sherlock called back, taking off his scarf and coat as he reached the entryway. He took the baggie with the swab out of his coat pocket.

“Who’s that?” John whispered. 

“My landlady, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock strode into the kitchen, plopping down immediately at the stool in front of his microscope. He took a petri dish and some kind of liquid, putting the swab next to him carefully on the table. He started preparing a slide for the microscope with deft fingers, his motions quick and precise. 

John leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Sherlock work for several minutes without speaking. It was mesmerizing in a way, seeing Sherlock in his element. He was so focused that it was as if he had already forgotten that John was there. 

“I met a friend of yours,” John said eventually.

Sherlock paused in his work, glancing up at John with a confused expression. “ _Friend_?” 

“An enemy,” John clarified.

“Oh.” Sherlock looked almost relieved, turning back to his slide. “Which one?”

“An arch enemy, according to him. How many enemies do you have, exactly? Not including the blokes from the alley?” 

Sherlock shrugged, just a subtle roll of his shoulders. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you take it?” 

“Of course not,” John scoffed.

Sherlock sighed, starting to focus the microscope. “Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time.” 

“So you know who he is?” 

"He's the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet, but not my problem right now.”

John was about to ask what that meant when there was a knock on the door, and an older woman—Mrs. Hudson, presumably—came in holding a tea tray.

“Well, hello,” she said, her eyes falling on John.

Sherlock had already turned back to his slide, which he now put under the microscope. “Mrs. Hudson, this is John Watson. He’s studying law at the university. He’ll be my new flatmate.” 

“Oh, lovely!” Mrs. Hudson said warmly, putting down the tray on the kitchen counter and shaking John’s hand. “You seem like a very nice young man.”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.” She winked at him. 

John felt himself flush bright red. “Of course we’ll be needing two.” 

“Oh don’t worry, there’s all sorts round here. Victor—”

“Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said placidly, not looking up from the microscope.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, moving over to pat Sherlock on the shoulder. “I’m so glad that you’re moving on, Sherlock. That boy wasn’t good for you.”

“Good _night_ , Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, his head still bowed.

Mrs. Hudson glanced back at John, grinning widely, and John looked downward, shuffling his feet a bit. Everyone seemed to think they were a couple, yet Sherlock seemed completely uninterested. 

“Night, dears,” Mrs. Hudson said, closing the door behind herself. John glanced at Sherlock, but he didn’t move or look up.

John cleared his throat, picking up one of the cups of tea and placing it next to Sherlock’s elbow. “So I guess I’ll get my things and move over tomorrow? Shouldn’t take long, I basically only have my textbooks and some clothes. My flat was furnished.”

Sherlock still didn’t say anything, so John sighed. Taking a long sip of his own tea, he put it down and walked toward the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” John said over his shoulder as he grabbed his coat. 

“John,” he heard from behind him.

John turned to see that Sherlock looking over the microscope at him. “What?”

“You’re tired, and the bed upstairs has linens on it. Stay here.” 

John’s immediate impulse was to refuse. He wanted nothing more than to stay with Sherlock now, forever, starting right away. But that very impulse scared him more than anything else. He was in danger of falling head over heels for this man who wanted nothing more out of him than a flatmate. 

Yet, he couldn’t ever seem to refuse him either, could he?

“Alright,” John acquiesced, and he thought he saw the corner of Sherlock’s mouth turn upward just a bit, but then it was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sexual Offences Act of 1967 decriminalized homosexual relationships in the United Kingdom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much as usual to [Leslie](http://scullyseviltwin.tumblr.com/), [Tenaya](http://sandyamp.tumblr.com/) and [Katie](http://therealmartinsgrrrl.tumblr.com/), who are all beautiful land mermaids and tropical fish.

The man from the pool seemed to be abnormally skilled at covering his tracks, and he had disappeared without a trace. All they had to go on was a first name, “Jim,” which may have been a pseudonym anyway. After searching fruitlessly for two weeks, Sherlock had settled into a dark mood, which in turn put a dark cloud over Baker Street. 

On a particularly chilly night, John was in the sitting room, trying to get through all his Property law notes for his midterm which was only a few days away. Between rugby practice starting and all the time he now spent investigating with Sherlock, his grades were suffering. He’d been below the median in the first exam for the course, and in order to keep his scholarship he had to ace the midterm. 

Sherlock was working in the kitchen, trying to match the substance from the bottom of the locker to various poisons as a last resort. After several hours, Sherlock threw a petri dish against the wall and growled in frustration. John looked up from his papers warily, wondering if he would have to abscond to the law library again in order to get any studying done. Sherlock stalked over to the window, taking out his violin case and snapping it open. 

He took out his violin and quickly tuned it, then simply let it rest against his neck as he looked out the window, plucking a few strings but not actually playing anything. John sighed and went back to his reading. Despite only having lived with him for a couple of weeks, he knew that nothing he did would snap Sherlock out of it right now. 

More than an hour went by this way, until eventually Sherlock turned to look at him. “Why do you do it?” he asked.

John looked up from his textbook, blinking blearily to try and refocus his tired eyes. “What?”

“That.” Sherlock, waved his bow at the piles of notes and law books on the table. 

John felt his jaw clench. “You know why,”  he said tiredly, not wanting to take the bait.

 “I know _why_ , I meant…why?”   

“Thanks, that clears it all up,” John rubbed his eyes, standing up. “Unlike _some people_ , who shall remain nameless, I have to study in order to do well in school. It doesn’t come naturally to me.”

He gathered up his books and notes and started to leave. There was no hope for it; he would just have to finish studying in his room.

“You could still be a doctor, you know,” Sherlock called out after him. 

John stopped short, his hand on the handle of the hall door. “What?” John turned around slowly.  

“It’s what you really want.”

John rubbed his forehead with one hand. “How, exactly, do you know what I really want?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s in your nature.” 

“It’s not—” John started. 

“You would have to transfer, probably to Bart’s,” Sherlock interrupted, untucking his violin from his neck. “You have the necessary A levels, so you would just have to submit your application.” 

John clenched his fist. “For your information, I worked really, really hard to get into UCL. I’m not going to give it up now.” 

Sherlock frowned, watching John with avid fascination. “Why pursue something if you don’t want it?” 

“Did it ever occur to you that I have my reasons?” 

“Your alcoholic sister’s failings shouldn’t dictate your entire life. Even your father would have agreed with that, drunkard though he was. Fulfilling your dead parent’s wishes is simple folly.” 

John glared at him, anger starting to overtake his exhaustion. “You don’t know the _first thing_ about my father,” he growled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not a difficult deduction. How did it happen? Did his liver give out?” 

“Stop it, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock barreled forward, as if he were incapable of listening to John’s protests. “No. Let me guess…smashed into something while driving drunk. Skull fracture, dead instantly.”

“I’m warning you, Sherlock. Shut up.” 

“Ohhhh. No, no, no. Stupid.” Sherlock shook his head as if disappointed with himself. “He didn’t die, did he? He just killed someone _else_ , maybe multiple someones. And you’re under some kind of ridiculous presumption that you will become a barrister and be able to get his sentence reduced? Is that it?” 

“I said _shut up_!” John yelled, kicking the chair nearest him. It hit the wall with a crash.

There was a ringing in John’s ears. Sherlock was looking at him in surprise, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. His normal bravado had been punctured like a balloon. 

“Everything all right, dears?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice called up the stairs. “Having a domestic?” 

“We’re fine, Mrs. Hudson,” John called back, forcing his tone to be light. “Sherlock’s just being... Sherlock. You know how it is.” 

“Very well. Just don’t ruin the furniture. Or what’s left of it.” Neither of them moved as her footsteps faded away again.

“Don’t talk about him,” John said through his teeth. “I mean it.” He turned to leave the room again.

“John, I...” Sherlock trailed off, his voice sounding strained.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John said, closing the door firmly behind himself.  

He stomped up to his room and lay on his bed to study more, but he couldn’t focus on the words. Sherlock’s voice kept floating through his head. The thing was, every single thing he’d said had been spot on. John had never fully admitted it to himself, but giving up medicine was one of his greatest regrets. It was like Sherlock had known exactly which buttons to push. 

John must have fallen asleep, because he woke up with his head at an awkward angle against the headboard and dawn breaking in his window. He sat up, wincing and rubbing his neck, but he froze as he saw that Sherlock was lying on the bed next to him, fully clothed and over the covers. He was staring at the ceiling, his hands folded over his lap, as if he had no idea that it was abnormal behavior for two flatmates to lay in bed together. John frowned, about to say something, when he noticed a cup of steaming tea on his bedstand. John glanced over at Sherlock, who was still very carefully staring at the ceiling.

John picked up the cup and took a sip of the tea, which was fixed exactly how he liked it. A peace offering, if a meagre one. “Thanks,” he said.

“Mmph.” 

 John smiled into his tea, then rested his head against the headboard, closing his eyes. 

“I’m…” Sherlock began, then cleared his throat. John blinked his eyes open, looking down at him.  “Sorry,” Sherlock finished, over-enunciating the word, as if he’d never said it before. He bit his lip, still not looking at John. 

John sighed, putting his tea down and sliding back down to rest his head on his pillow. “I accept your apology, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock worried his lower lip between his teeth. “I don’t know how to do this, John.”

“Do what?” John yawned. His anger seemed to have dissipated with the night, and now all he felt was bone-deep exhaustion.

“I don’t have…friends.”  

“Thanks a lot,” John said snarkily. 

Sherlock turned to look at him apprehensively, looking unbelievably young all of a sudden. 

John felt his heart softening at the look. “Well, you can start by not ripping open their deepest and most painful secrets. It tends to rub people the wrong way.” 

“I didn’t even realize I was doing it. You have to understand, John. My brain is like a rocket trapped on the launchpad, constantly straining for challenge, and with the murderer still missing...” he trailed off, biting his lip again. John wanted nothing more than to taste that lip, to feel it between his own teeth.

John forced himself to meet Sherlock’s eyes again, because watching that mouth was too dangerous. “Okay, rule one about friendship—just because you can deduce all of those things about someone doesn’t mean you have to say them aloud. Friends don’t pick at their friends’ wounds until they bleed, Sherlock.” 

“How will I know if I’m doing it?”  

Sighing again, John closed his eyes. “From now on, I’ll let you know when you’re going too far. With me or with other people. Now let me sleep.”

“You have to get to your lecture—” 

“Just resting,” John said. 

“It’s the first day with the new Crim professor, the one who uses the Socratic method. You don’t want to be late.” 

John cracked his eyes open. “You remembered that? You don’t even care about whether the earth revolves around the sun, but you remember that I have a new professor?” 

Sherlock huffed. “You went on about how the previous professor suddenly went on sabbatical for at least half an hour the other day. Besides, when it’s something about you, I do care.”

He was looking at John with such unaffectedly earnest expression that John felt a tug in his chest. Sherlock cared enough about John to remember extraneous details about his life, enough to apologize when it obviously didn’t come naturally to him, enough to be worried that John wouldn’t forgive him.

Unable to look at Sherlock for one more second without making some kind of embarrassing declaration, John closed his eyes again. 

“John—” 

“Just ten minutes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock fidgeted. “Should I...?” 

John didn’t hesitate. “Stay,” he said, eyes still closed. And Sherlock stayed.

 

 

* * *

John ran up the steps of the law building, checking his watch as he went. Despite Sherlock’s entreaties, he’d slept far later than he’d meant to, and now he was late for Criminal Law.

John ran down the empty corridor, opening the door to the lecture hall and quickly turned around to close it quietly behind him.  

“Well, well,” a chillingly singsong voice said. “Nice of you to join us.”

The class tittered, and John froze, his heart pounding. That voice sounded eerily familiar. 

He turned around slowly, adrenalin pumping through his system. 

The shorter man from the alley was standing at the front of the class. He was garbed in a light grey suit with a red pocket square, and his dark eyes were focused on John. He was smiling, but something about that smile made John cringe.  

“Professor Jim Moriarty. Hi,” the man said, in the same singsong voice, waving at John with just his fingers. “Your name please?”   

John cleared his throat. “Er…Watson. John Watson.”

The man’s smile widened impossibly further. “John Watson. I won’t be forgetting that name anytime soon.” 

John gulped. 

“Take a seat then, Mr. Watson.” 

Wishing he could turn and run out the doors, John made his way over to a seat on the edge of the first row and quickly sat down.

“Now, let’s continue. I believe that Professor Whipple left off with grand larceny, yes?”

John listened to the lecture with half an ear, his phone burning a hole in his pocket. Sherlock had been searching for this man for weeks, unable to find a trace of him, and here he was, discussing the _mens rea_ of burglary as if he were just any other professor. John’s heart was racing, and he felt like he was going to be sick.

The minutes inched tortuously by, until Professor Moriarty finally ended the lecture. John immediately bounded from his seat and bolted for the door. 

“Mr. Watson, a word,” Moriarty called out, just as John’s hand touched the handle. 

“I have to get to another lecture—” John began to protest.

“It will take but a moment,” Moriarty interrupted. 

The students flowed around John, some stealing amused glances at him as they passed, others talking behind their hands. 

John resisted the urge to swear under his breath and stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked back toward the front of the classroom. 

“So, Mr. Watson,” Moriarty said, gathering up his papers as he spoke. “I sincerely hope that you will not be late again. Otherwise, there may be repercussions.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” John said, keeping his face blank.

Moriarty tilted his head, looking at John as if he were examining a fascinating specimen. The door slammed behind the last of the students, and suddenly he was alone with Moriarty. The professor walked over to the blackboard and began slowly erasing all the writing he had done during class. John shifted from foot to foot, still feeling uneasy.

“Do you enjoy swimming, Mr. Watson?” Moriarty said over his shoulder. When he was finished, he dropped the eraser, wiping the chalk from his hands on a rag.

“Do I…what?” John said, trying to keep his composure.  

Moriarty threw down the rag, stuffed his hands in his pockets and swaggered back to where John stood. “I suppose I should ask, instead, whether you can swim at all. It can be an important skill, you know. When you’re thrown headfirst into deep water, you don’t always know whether there are…sharks.” The sides of his mouth slid upward, slowly, into a mirthless grin. 

John blinked once in surprise, watching him warily. So it was a threat, then; Moriarty knew he had been at the pool. _How, though?_

“Actually, yes, I can swim. I’ve met my share of sharks, and I’ve not necessarily come out on the bottom in those fights,” he said bitingly.  

Moriarty’s mouth twitched, then he let out a barking laugh, sending a chill down John’s body. 

Moriarty snapped his briefcase shut. “Tell your friend I know what he’s doing. Also, if he wants to keep his pet, he’ll stop baiting the sharks.” 

“Pet?” John repeated. 

Moriarty raised his eyebrows, looking John up and down once.

Realizing that he was referring to him, John narrowed his eyes. 

Moriarty smiled again, all teeth. “See you at the next lecture. We will be discussing _actus reus_ of felony-murder. Quite thrilling. Ta,” Moriarty said, grabbing his briefcase and, with one last smile, left the room. 

As the door slammed behind him, John let out a huge breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He pulled out his phone and dialed Sherlock’s number as he walked out of the classroom. It rang through to voicemail, so John dialed again, but Sherlock didn’t pick up. 

He hurried from the law building, starting to type out a text as quickly as possible, but just as he exited the main door he almost ran into Sherlock himself.

“Oh, John, good,” Sherlock said, nodding curtly. “I was looking for you. We’ve been summoned to a crime scene.”

“Sherlock,” John said in relief. “The murderer is my bloody Criminal Law professor. His name was Moriarty. He made me stay after lecture, and was dropping all these hints about the pool—he knows who I am. He knows we were there.”

“ _Professor_ ,” Sherlock said, looking back at the building as if it had personally offended him. “All this time, he was hiding in plain sight.”

“I know, I tried to act normal, but he obviously knew. And now he knows my name, Sherlock—”

“He obviously has a lot more connections than we thought. This changes the range of motives dramatically, but we will have to come back to investigate,” Sherlock interrupted. “This new murder, though, it's connected, I can feel it. Come on.” Sherlock turned John around and pushed him toward the street.  

“Wait—” John protested. 

“No, you don’t need to study Property,” Sherlock cut him off, hailing a taxi with his free hand. “It’s another apparent drowning, but we both know that’s completely ridiculous,” he said as he opened the door for John. 

“We do?” John said wearily, giving in. Sherlock slid in after him, closing the door and barking an address at the cab driver. 

 

 

* * *

When they arrived at their destination, Sherlock jumped out of the cab—leaving John to pay— and pulled some nitrile gloves from his pocket. He handed a pair to John and pulled on his own as he strode forward, his coat billowing behind him. As they walked, John took in the scene in front of him. They were on the edge of a nondescript bridge on the banks of the Thames, and several Scotland Yard cars were parked with their lights flashing. A few cops in uniform and some people in forensics suits were standing about chatting.

“Come along, John,” Sherlock called over his shoulder, striding forward as if he belonged there. John sighed in exasperation, jogging to catch up with him. 

Sherlock held up the crime scene tape long enough that John was able to slip underneath it, and a young plainclothes officer walked over to them quickly, holding up a hand to halt their progress.

“Oy, freak. You’re not allowed on crime scenes.” 

“Don’t call him that,” John snapped before he could stop himself. 

She looked down at John, raising an eyebrow. “Who’re you?” she asked incredulously. 

“This is my flatmate, John Watson,” Sherlock said before John could answer.

“Flatmate? How did _you_ get a flatmate?” She looked back at John. “What, did he follow you home?” she cocked her head toward Sherlock.

Before Sherlock could make a no-doubt scathing remark, a man in his early thirties with kind eyes strode up to them. “Sherlock,” the new arrival said, taking Sherlock’s hand and shaking it. “Thanks for coming.” 

“So, I’m allowed on the scene, Sergeant Lestrade?” Sherlock asked loudly, looking at the female officer out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course, of course,” Lestrade said, waving his hand. “I got approval from the D.I. Just this once.” 

“But—” the woman started to interrupt.

“Donovan, go and see if the coroners are ready,” Lestrade said.

The woman—Donovan— looked from Sherlock to John. “You should stay away from him if you know what’s good for you,” she said to John. “He’s a psychopath.” 

“Donovan—” Lestrade started in a warning tone.

Undeterred, Donovan barreled forward. “Just you wait. One of these days, we are going to be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.” 

“I said that’s _enough_ , Donovan,” Lestrade snapped. “Coroner. Now." 

Donovan looked daggers at Sherlock, clamped her mouth shut and stalked away.  

“Sorry,” Lestrade said to Sherlock, who shrugged, appearing unruffled. Lestrade’s eyes fell on John. “Who’s this? I can’t really have more unauthorized people on the scene.” 

“John Watson,” John said, holding out his hand. “I’m studying at the School of Laws at UCL. I’m particularly interested in criminal law, so if you wouldn’t mind my being here, I think I could learn something.”  

“Greg Lestrade,” the man said, shaking John’s hand as his eyes slid from John to Sherlock and back again. “I suppose you can observe. Maybe someday you’ll be a prosecutor, eh? Couldn’t hurt to have a friend in that office.” He clapped John on the back. “You play football at UCL, John?” 

“Rugby,” John said, smiling. 

“Ah, should have guessed it, it’s all in the shoulders,” Lestrade said.  

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Can we see the body now? If you’re done with your cro-magnon friendship ritual?”

Shaking his head in mock chagrin, Lestrade released John’s hand and lead them toward the riverbank. “Female, early twenties. No phone or ID found on the body, so for now she’s Jane Doe. It appears to be a suicide, and Anderson has already ruled the cause of death to be drowning.” 

They circled around one of the pillars of the bridge toward a group of people who were standing around what had to be the body. 

“Why did you call me, then?” Sherlock said in an affectedly bored voice.

Lestrade rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know, something about this just twigged my brain. After the Powers kid… it could just be a coincidence, I suppose.” 

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Sherlock said under his breath. 

As they approached, John could see the outline of the body through the legs of the people standing around her. 

“I need everyone away from the scene so I can work,” Sherlock said loudly. 

The several people who were standing nearby stopped talking, looking at Sherlock. 

“Do as he says,” Lestrade said wearily. 

Though a few of them grumbled or gave Sherlock death glares, they moved a bit to the side, and John was able to catch a glimpse of the woman. She was wearing a familiar-looking long pink rain coat, and was nearly on her side. Her face was slightly obscured by long tendrils of dark, wet hair, and a fine white froth laced her nose and mouth.

“Oh my god,” John breathed. 

“What?” Sherlock asked sharply.

“Alexia.” John crouched by the body, feeling sick.

“Care to elaborate?” Sherlock asked, squatting next to him. 

“A third year. She—I knew her,” he finished lamely. He cleared his throat and continued, despite feeling like something was lodged in his trachea. “She tutored me last semester. She was brilliant, top of her class.”   

Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, John, I know this is difficult, but I need to know. What was her last name?”   

John sat back on his heels. “Poussant.”  

Lestrade nodded, taking out his phone and walking a short distance away to place a call. 

“Another top third year student at the School of Laws, dead under mysterious circumstances,” Sherlock mused once they were alone, scanning the body.  

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” John whispered. 

“Almost certainly. Your professor must be involved again. But what’s the link? The pattern?” Sherlock said, not bothering to lower his voice. 

“I don’t—” 

“Did she know Carl?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Yeah, she was going with him this semester, I think.”   

A man in a hazmat suit who’d been eavesdropping slinked back over. “Open and shut, then. Her beau died, so she killed herself.” 

“She wouldn’t kill herself over a bloke. She was too—I don’t know, pragmatic,” John said. He stood, crossing his arms across his chest and trying to breathe deeply, filling his lungs with the abnormally brisk air.  

Sherlock raised Alexia’s hand and sniffed her fingernails, which were also painted pink. “This was not a suicide. Or a drowning, for that matter,” he said, replacing her hand carefully.

“She had pulmonary edema, resulting from drowning in freshwater. How else would that have happened?” the forensics man asked, obviously annoyed. “She jumped off a bridge and drowned herself. The simplest explanation tends to be the right one.”

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the entire street.” Sherlock was still examining the body, now with a small magnifying glass. “She didn’t die in the water. In fact, I don’t think she was ever in the river itself, as her coat isn’t drenched on the inside. The tide may have lapped around her body, but she was dumped here on the riverbank. John, are there any other causes of pulmonary edema other than drowning?”

John glanced at Anderson. “I’m not a doctor, or a forensics expert, Sherlock. I—”

“Answer the question,” Sherlock interrupted.   

John bit his lip. “I can think of three off the top of my head. High altitude is one of them.”

Sherlock nodded, the ghost of a smile passing over his lips. “There's another possibility: chemical inhalation. See these skin irritations?” 

“She might have had a pre-existing skin condition,” Anderson snapped. 

“John, did you ever notice that she had a skin condition?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly.  

“No.” 

Anderson scowled at both of them, but didn’t say anything more. Lestrade was walking back over to them, hanging up his phone at the same time. “Alexia Poussant went missing four days ago,” he said. “She was on her way to visit her parents in Cardiff, but she never made it. The parents thought she’d decided to stay at school, and the roommate thought she was at home. No one realized she was actually missing until a few days had gone by.”

Sherlock opened her mouth to look down her throat. “There’s also some kind of irritation on her throat. I’ve seen these kinds of chemical burns before. There was a dolt of a student who mishandled chemicals in our lab last year.”

“So what was it?” Lestrade asked patiently.

Sherlock paused, nodding, as if to himself. “Chlorine gas inhalation. I would have to do some tests, but I’m almost certain. The color and pattern of burns, the edema, the material under her fingernails.”

“Material?” John asked. 

Sherlock held up her hand again. “See how torn her fingernails are? She was clawing at the wall when she was asphyxiating, trying to get out. If you take samples from under her fingernails, we might be able to match it with building materials to find out where she died.”

“Brilliant,” John said, almost at a whisper.

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes glittering. “Do you know you do that out loud?” he asked. Their eyes met, and neither of them looked away, the moment seeming to stretch on endlessly. John’s heart was beating faster, and the wind whipping off the river couldn’t be the only reason why he shivered.  

Lestrade cleared his throat, breaking the tension like snapping a thread. 

“Sorry,” John backpedaled, feeling himself flush as he averted his gaze.   

“No, it’s…fine.” Sherlock stood.

“Even if she didn’t die of drowning, that doesn’t rule out suicide,” Lestrade said, apparently trying to get the conversation back on track.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “Most young female suicides occur in the home, slit wrists or pills. Or even carbon monoxide poisoning. No one kills themselves by inhaling chlorine gas. It was murder, and it's definitely connected with Carl Powers. A serial killer, and an arrogant one, it’s like Christmas,” he said, almost gleefully. 

Anderson threw him a disgusted look, as did a few of the other technicians. 

“Sherlock,” John said in a warning tone, moving toward him. 

Sherlock faltered. “Not good?” 

“A bit not good, yeah,” John said, glancing toward the others. 

Sherlock bit his lip, watching John with apprehension. 

John touched his elbow lightly, trying to reassure him. “So they killed her and then—what, they dumped her body here, trying to make it look like a drowning? But why?” 

Sherlock watched him for a moment. “Did she have a phone?” he asked finally. 

John frowned. “Yeah, yeah she did.”

"But it wasn't found on the body, Lestrade?"

Lestrade shook his head once.

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock glanced down at the body again, then over at the shoreline. “Pink,” he muttered. Without another word, he turned and walked out toward the water.  

“What?” John asked, striding quickly to keep up with him. 

“Sherlock—” Lestrade called after them. 

“We’ll be back,” John said over his shoulder. “What was that, then?”

“ _Pink_ ,” Sherlock said again, as if this were completely obvious. He turned his collar up against the drizzle that was starting to come down.

“Pink?” John repeated weakly. 

“She was traveling, John. And given the frankly alarming shade of pink she seemed to favor…”

John looked up at him incredulously.

“Her _case_ , John,” Sherlock said in exasperation. “Where is it? Did she eat it?”

“Er…” John cleared his throat. “Maybe the killer got rid of it wherever he murdered her?”

“Possibly, or—” Sherlock stopped short. They had walked almost all the way to a bridge downstream from the crime scene, and he was looking at a cluster of logs stuck in place in the middle of the slow-moving murky water. “Given the timing of the tide at the time of death, and the rain yesterday, that must be it.”

Sherlock ripped off his coat and thrust it at John. “Wait here,” he said, kicking off his shoes and wading into the water.

“Sherlock, that water is freezing!”

“Not nearly,” Sherlock called over his shoulder.  

“It’s still cold enough to give you hypothermia,” John called out, but it was too late; Sherlock had started to swim toward the cluster. John glanced back toward the far bridge where the crime scene was still ongoing, but they were far enough away that no one had seemed to notice that Sherlock Holmes was fully submerged in the Thames.

John looked back out toward the water, watching Sherlock’s dark head bobbing farther and farther from the shore. Sherlock seemed to be a good swimmer and the current wasn’t fast, but John was still apprehensive. When Sherlock reached the cluster of logs, his head disappeared. Seconds ticked by slowly, until Sherlock finally surfaced again, swimming one-handed toward John, pulling something behind himself.

“Jesus,” John muttered, wading out a little to help a very waterlogged Sherlock out of the river, just as the rain had started picking up to a drenching pour. “You must be freezing, this water—”

He helped Sherlock sit down and draped his coat around him. He looked triumphant, despite the fact that his lips were tinged blue.

“We need to get a cab,” John said.

“L-look,” Sherlock chattered, refusing to let go of the object in his grasp. “Case.” 

“What is so important about the bloody case?” John asked. 

Sherlock smiled, despite the chattering of his teeth, as he cleaned off some of the river mud and gunk from the top of the case. “It’s _p-pink_.” 

“That it is, bully for you.” John couldn’t quite keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“N-need to l-look for M-Moriarty,” Sherlock said, water dripping down his nose.

“Not gonna happen. You need to get warm first. We can look for Moriarty tomorrow.”

 

 

* * *

Sherlock refused to give the case to Scotland Yard, and John was too worried about him to argue. They caught a cab back to Baker Street, once they could find one who was willing to take them despite the fact that Sherlock was sopping wet.

After depositing the pink case in the living room as directed, John took Sherlock straight to his room, pushing the door open. The whole room was immaculate, in contrast to the general disarray of the living room and kitchen. The wallpaper was a vibrant shade of green, and there was a framed periodic table on the wall next to the door, on another was an anatomical drawing of a bee. The bed was covered in expensive-looking sheets and was made with precision.  

John helped Sherlock over to the bed, taking off his coat, then his shoes. “Th-this is un-n-necessary,” Sherlock said, shivering even more.   

“Yeah, right,” John said dryly, unbuttoning Sherlock’s sopping wet shirt and taking it off. Hesitating slightly, he reached to undo Sherlock’s trousers and pulled them down. Once Sherlock was only in his pants, John helped him into bed and under the covers. 

John hesitated. It would be best for him to take off his clothes, too, and warm Sherlock with his body heat. They had already shared a bed, technically, but this felt like crossing some kind of line.  

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes dark smudges, and his teeth chattering audibly. “John?” 

“I’m still worried about hypothermia,” John said quietly. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “B-body heat?”   

“Yeah,” John said, still hesitant. “If Mrs. Hudson came up in the morning and found me in your bed though…I don’t know, people might talk.”

“P-people d-do little else,” Sherlock said, his expression inscrutable.

John bit his lip. Getting into bed with a mostly-naked Sherlock while he was mostly-naked himself seemed like a terrible idea for his sanity, if nothing else. 

“I p-promise I won’t d-do anything un-t-toward,” Sherlock said, grinning despite the chattering of his teeth.  

John rolled his eyes, taking off his rain-drenched clothes as quickly as possible, leaving only his pants, and slid into the bed carefully. Sherlock didn’t move, his eyes widening slightly as if he hadn’t expected for John to actually get in bed with him.

Trying to appear more confident than he felt, John slid forward. “C’mere, it’s pointless if we’re not touching.” He pulled Sherlock toward him until they were pressed together, chest to chest. 

Sherlock tucked his head into John’s neck, and John wrapped his arms and legs around Sherlock’s cold body. Sherlock was still shivering uncontrollably, and it was a long while before he stopped shaking.  

“Better?” John said once the last of the tremors subsided.

“Getting there,” Sherlock said quietly. “How is it that you keep having to bring me to bed under less than ideal circumstances?” he asked, his breath unfurling against John’s skin.

John froze. _What exactly would you consider to be ideal circumstances?_ he wanted to ask. He wished he could see Sherlock’s face, to discern whether it was a joke or…a flirtation.   

Attempting deflection, John snorted. “Because you seem to have some kind of death wish.” It was supposed to be a reprimand, but his voice came out softer than he’d meant it to be.  

“I had things perfectly under control," Sherlock huffed.

John rolled his eyes, but said nothing. They lay there for a few more minutes, listening to the sound of the rain outside.

“That was truly brilliant, what you did today. Figuring out what really killed her. Alexia, she…” John cleared his throat, unable to find the words to finish the sentence. 

“John,” Sherlock said quietly.  

“I wasn’t keen on her or anything, you know,” John blurted out before he could stop himself. For some reason, it felt important to make that clear. “I just…she was a good person. She didn’t deserve this.” 

Sherlock paused. “Caring about them won’t help save them, John.”

“I know, I know, it’s just, Moriarty, he knew I’m involved. You don’t think he—it was because of me that he targeted her, do you?”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, and John thought he’d fallen asleep. “If your connection to her was that circumstantial, I doubt he targeted her because of you. The motive still eludes me, but I will do my best to bring her murderers to justice, John. Hers and Carl’s. I promise.”

Not trusting his voice at that moment, John nodded.

John lay there for a long time, not quite sleeping, just listening to Sherlock breathe evenly and deeply. After a while Sherlock dropped off to sleep, and his body temperature rose almost back to normal. Instead of rolling away from him as he should have done, though, John settled further into Sherlock’s embrace.  

The warmth in his chest bloomed again, deeper, more permanently than it ever had before. It was a strangely satisfying feeling, like he’d found the last piece of a puzzle, or had come home from a long and arduous journey. Holding Sherlock in his arms felt more like being home than any place John had ever been before. John had never depended on anyone but himself, and the fact that this was starting to change scared him more than anything. 

When he finally drifted off, he dreamed of bees buzzing in the honeyed afternoon light of a summer afternoon and of dark curls twined through his fingers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am hoping that it isn’t a grievous error that the Thames could be cold enough during a cold snap in the winter to give someone hypothermia. I tried to do some research on this but it was a bit unclear, so if it isn’t, just chalk it up to artistic license. 
> 
> I also took some liberties regarding the general organization of law studies at the University College of London School of Laws, and based it mostly on the way classes are taught here in the US (I don’t know if they hold midterm examinations or whether they use the socratic method for example).
> 
> Finally, some of you might remember that John originally thought Moriarty was a student. I decided to change that detail for plot purposes. Sorry for the confusion.


End file.
